How to Train a Cat

Many years ago, when dear little Malaika was a young cat, she developed a fascination for the collaged wooden door stop used on the bathroom door.  Mind you, she never payed any attention to this during the daylight hours, but when we were trying to go to sleep at night an overpowering urge to play with this seemed to overcome her.

As we turned out the lights and settled in for the night, first came the small sounds of Malaika batting this way and that, trying to free it from under the door.  The door stop scuffed back and forth, millimeter by millimeter, until it was free.  Then, of course, the door would swing slowly shut.

Malaika clearly enjoyed this nightly ritual.  We enjoyed it less, because if the scuffling noises did not keep us awake, the slamming door would awaken us.

One day I conceived of a brilliant plan to put a stop to these nighttime shenanigans once and for all.  Very carefully, I balanced a metal measuring cup on the doorknob.  With the door stop in place, the proximity to the wall kept the cup in place.  We went to bed that night, chuckling softly, waiting for Malaika to begin her routine.

Bat, scuff, scrape; bat, scuff, scrape - then CLANG!  The cup hit the floor, and the next sounds were Malaika doing one of those cartoon “Feet, don’t fail me now!” attempts to gain purchase on the slippery linoleum and get as far away as she could from that dreadful metal monster.

The poor dear was humiliated by our admittedly triumphant laughter and would you believe - she never touched that door stop again! 

 My, doesn't she look innocent?

I Remember, I Remember, the Wondrous Woodstock Fair

Of course, they say if you remember it, you weren’t there - but let me assure you that I was in attendance in its entirety.  I merely forgot to write a blog post about it on the 42nd anniversary in August.  (Blame the kittens).

We had been regulars at the Newport Folk festival for several summers, and we had attended Mariposa in July of that year, so it seemed only natural to send away for tickets to this Woodstock festival when we saw the ad (probably in Rolling Stone).  It sounded like an amazing event and the line-up was too good to be true.  We had seen a number of the performers before, but all in one place over one weekend:  Jefferson Airplane, The Who, the Grateful Dead, Richie Havens, Arlo Guthrie, Joan Baez, Janis Joplin, Santana, Sly and the Family Stone, Joe Cocker, Country Joe and the Fish, Jimi Hendrix, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Ravi Shankar, and more!

Three of us went in our then-new Volkswagen Mini Bus (aka Marsha the Enormous Mother).  There was my wasband Paul and this guy George* from Montreal who we had met in a coffee house in Hamilton.  George went by the nickname Windy.  (Windy  was later famous for gifting us with our notorious pet raccoon, Rocky.)  We were all set for camping in the bus, with a mattress and a camp stove.  We brought foodstuffs with us, like carrot sticks and Kraft dinners, bread, peanut butter and hot chocolate.  We naturally assumed that we would just “go to the store” and buy other needed items such as milk and butter.  Hah!

I don’t remember any of my wardrobe except water buffalo sandals.  I imagine I was wearing bellbottoms and little tops or a bikini most of the time.  (Ye gods, what a long time ago that was!)  We were also equipped with army surplus ponchos and one metal canteen.  (Photo below was taken by Gordon Lawson, outside of Letchworth, probably in 1969.)

 

 

We arrived on Thursday evening and were fortunate enough, finally, to find a parking spot at a little tavern fairly close to the festival grounds.  No campgrounds were to be found and no bathrooms, much to my dismay.  The men had little problem with this but I remember being extremely relieved (!) when the tavern allowed us to use their facilities the next morning.  Lines for both the men's room and the ladies' room snaked out the door and into the parking lot.  I will never forget the designations on the doors of these rest rooms:  Pointers and Setters.  I thought this was hilarious but the country cleverness seemed to baffle most of the city kids.

We packed up our back packs (Paul and I shared one small olive drab army surplus pack and Windy had a massive pack with God knows what in it) and headed over to the festival.  Paul and I were old hands at standing in lines, being herded like cattle between chain link fences, handing in our tickets, finding a place to sit and watching the concerts.  We were astonished to find no lines and trampled fences, no gate, no ticket takers!  I distinctly remember feeling peeved that we had paid “all this money!” (I recall the tickets costing $18 each) for a weekend ticket and here there was no one to hand it to.  We threw those tickets away (and now they are worth a fortune!).

They were still building the stage when we arrived on the festival grounds.  This was more than a little dismaying, but we found a place to spread our blanket and plunked ourselves onto the ground.   We were high on the hill, well above the stage which looked like it was miles away from our distant vantage point.  It seemed to me that many hours passed before the concert struggled to a start.  But the sun was shining, the crowd was peaceful, we did not care.  We passed around our carrot sticks. 

Two distinct memories - the crowd booing at an Army helicopter (flying in to help us) and the thrill of saying “that word” aloud for the first time in my life when Country Joe led the crowd in his legendary “Fish Cheer.”

Towards the end of the first day’s concert, Windy and I decided to return to the mini bus and Paul decided to stay and catch the next act.  What we did not know is that both Windy and I had no idea where we were going and consequently headed off in the opposite direction from where the bus was parked.  Plus I left my sandals in the pack so I was barefoot.

Windy and I walked and walked and walked some more - it was dark and I remember walking through a cow pasture, trying not to step into anything disgusting or on anyone sleeping there, we crossed a stream by walking over a slippery mossy dam, we walked and walked until we reached a road and then we walked some more.  Because we were virtual strangers to each other, Windy and I were extraordinarily polite to one another (Paul and I would have been at each others throats, but Paul was possessed of a remarkable sense of direction so he would never have gotten lost in the first place).  Windy and I were like Alphonse and Gaston,  helping each other over and around obstacles in the darkness.  “After you.”  “No, after you!”

Once on the road it seems we walked for miles (me ouching along on the hard gravel on the shoulder), traffic was creeping by bumper to bumper.  As the sun came up, a kind soul offered us his trunk to sit upon and another rider passed a bottle of wine over to Windy, who took a slug.  We were just settling down, and really appreciating the sitting part, when I happened to glance to the left of the highway and there, oh blessed gods, was our little tavern and Marsha the Enormous Mother!  I shudder to think where we would have ended up had I not turned my head in that direction.

Paul had just gotten up and was making some breakfast and casually inquired, “Hey, where have you guys been?”

We never saw the Hog Farm, the art exhibits,  or any vendors (well, except one memorable one!).  We catnapped at the bus and at the site, catching some acts and missing others completely.  The changeovers between acts seemed to take forever (not like the stage crew at current festivals when they can go from a solo performer with one mic to a full-fledged rock band in about five minutes). Paul and I were really tired after staying at the concert all the second night and we left just as the sun was rising in glorious technicolor.  I will never forget this moment as long as I live.  Jefferson Airplane was onstage and Gracie’s voice was soaring into the air as we trudged out and lo and behold, there was an ice cream vendor with a little cart.  For breakfast that day, I had the best Fudgsicle I have ever eaten.

I do not remember which day it was that we happened upon the infamous pond.  It did not take us very long to decide to go skinny dipping because the pond was so churned up and muddy it seemed a shame to get our bathing suits dirty.  That pond was memorable in more ways than one.  ‘Nuff  said.

From where we were sitting when The Who performed, Roger Daltry and his wonderful white fringe appeared to us to be about an inch high.  Luckily, we got to see them perform Tommy at Kleinhans and had a much closer view a few months later.  The following weekend we saw Ravi Shankar at Stratford and he was sneezing and apologized that he had caught a cold at Woodstock.

I don’t remember when the rains came - the Woodstock in my memory was mostly sunny.  Maybe because I have been a “rain or shine” festival goer for so many years that the rainy part of Woodstock did not register.  I cannot speak for Windy and the contents of his marvelous back pack, but Paul and I were completely “straight” at the festival.  I remember seeing bottles of wine passed around and maybe a few joints, but these somehow seemed unnecessary, because we had the music and we had the atmosphere.  Everyone was as just mellow as we were, sprawling in the sunshine or crouching in the rain.

Other than Wavy Gravy’s reports from the stage, we had no idea about the problems the festival had caused the Great State of New York.  We had no mobile phones so we did not know our parents were beside themselves with worry.  Many years later, when I mentioned to my former mother-in-law about how worried I had been when my parents plane was late coming back from Europe because of some political disturbances abroad, she laughed.  I was about to be highly insulted by her laughter, but then she said, “Well, now you know how we felt when you were at Woodstock.”

*A cyber search revealed that George ("Windy") passed away in 2006..Here is how his family described him in his obituary:   "He was a man of uncompromising principles and values, a teacher, a nomad, a prophet, a sinner and a saint. The void he leaves in the lives and hearts of so many can never be filled."

First Orange

Red has always been my absolute favorite color, and on down the line I like purples, blues, blue-greens.  Yellow is OK, I suppose, but as far back as I can remember, orange has always been my least favorite color.  Oddly enough though, starting a few weeks ago, orange began to insert itself into my life:  quite subtly at first, and then with a decided force.

I began by photographing the few proud day lilies that the deer had not eaten.  Then, I discovered a monarch butterfly inside my house, sitting boldly on the bathroom window.  OK, methinks, maybe orange is not so bad a color after all.

Then, about a week ago, when I was thinking good thoughts about the color orange, the trap was sprung by the first orange kitten.  Beautiful orange-on-orange marbled swirls all over his body and blue-within-blue sapphire eyes - what a cutie!  I knew right away that I was the one who had been trapped.  I also knew with his spice eyes that he would have to be a Dune cat so I named him eventually named Leto II, but until I was sure of the Dune name I called him First Orange.

"First Orange"

Two days later, no more felines had been captured (momcat and the rest of the litter had seemingly vanished), I returned to the old neighborhood and began nosing around.  I was looking for the person or persons who had been feeding momcat.  I found the tortie momcat lying most regally on Miss Lucy’s back porch, right next to a platter of catfood and a bowl of water.  She blinked at me, meowed a few times, and then resumed her nap.

There was no sign of her kittens.  I had neighbors looking hither and yon and not one kit was to be found.  At the end of the day a neighbor helped to grab momcat and put her into a carrier to be reunited with her firstborn son.  He was over-the-moon thrilled to see her and she just kinda rolled her eyes and said, “But you said my life would be different now….”

I returned to the neighborhood the following day and one by one, the remaining five kittens were plucked from their hiding places behind Miss Lucy’s garage and in the adjoining yards.  Two orange ones, one dark tiger.  Then a search of several hours before nabbing the two remaining jet-black darlings.  They fought like little devils but we got ‘em!

So now it has been decided that momcat, named Lucy, is top be my new shopcat (my shop screams for a shopcat, doncha think?) and little Leto is going home with me along with coal-black Lola, the only girl in the litter.  The rest will be on view at my shop and at various pet stores on Saturdays until they all find homes.   They were born on July 2, so they are currently 6 weeks old.

The traps were borrowed from 10th Chance Animal Rescue so here’s a huge “THANK YOU!” to my old friend Chris Bogan for all of her time and sage advice and another huge “THANK YOU!” to Dr. Keisha Hawkins and Lacey at the Kenmore Animal Hospital for giving these critters such an outstanding experience on their first trip to the vet.

Leto II (Happy kitty, sleepy kitty, purr, purr, purr)

The Space between Dhruga and Summer

The Space Between Dhruga and Summer

Dhruga the Watch Cat has been waiting

With patience eternal

Her tail flicks lazily

Luminous eyes blink slowly and

She purrs at a remembered caress

Dhruga has been waiting

With patience eternal

Others wait with her

But Dhruga is the Watch Cat

She must alert the rest………

“John!  Moonshine!  Puck!

She’s coming back to us!

Here she comes!  She’s here!

Pamela has come Home to us!”

There is a joyous reunion in Heaven

Laughter abounds, purring surrounds

Now Summer is the one who waits

In the window of his temporal home

Watching the familiar birds and squirrels

And waiting for his time of reunion

My Dad

 Elma, 1948

I was done up in this outfit to be the flower girl at my uncle's wedding.  I was less than thrilled, pitched a royal fit,  and the wedding photographer caught us just as dad was calming me down.  I was always referred to as "Miss Thundercloud" by the family because of this behavior and this photograph, but it is also told that I fulfilled my duties as a flower girl quite flawlessly.

I miss my dad.

The Ones That Got Away

Thrift shopping has been my passion since I was old enough to walk “downtown” by myself when we lived in Albion. (Downtown was about one block away from the parsonage.) On my route home from sixth grade I passed by what we used to call a “junk store” (which would now be called an “antique store”).

I loved this dimly lit, dusty (OK, filthy) over-crowded emporium. It was chock full of wonders. Walking through the aisles, I always had the impression that if I were to bump into the wrong thing I would be buried in an avalanche of junk. I spent many glorious hours poking around in there by myself, spending a nickel here and a dime there on little wonderful tchotchke (I never learned what my finds were called until decades later). One day it was like a dream come true when I peered through the grimy windows to see horse statues, large ones and small figurines, all over the entire store! I ran home, got some money from the sock half-full of coins that I kept in my bedroom, went back to the store and started buying up the horses. I bought ones for 10¢, I bought ones for 15¢, I bought ones for 25¢! I was in Horse Heaven!!!

I was unfortunately not the only one buying these precious statues so some of them got away from me, but I bought as many as I could as swiftly as I could manage it.

Finally, one horse remained - it was the kind of bronze statue that one would see on a mantle, and it was the famous racehorse Man o’ War. It was magnificent. But, alas, it was far beyond my meager budget - it cost a whole $9.00. I tried in vain to convince my parents to front me a couple years’ allowance so I could buy this treasure but they flatly refused my impassioned pleas. “$9.00 for a horse statue! Not on your life, young lady!”

I do still own and cherish the rest of the horses I bought from that junk store, but if anyone in my lifetime ever invents a time machine, I plan on going back and buying Man o’ War.

Fast forward to the early eighties. One day my hubby and his best friend and I were messing around in and out of all of the great little shops that then occupied Allen Street. We went into a used clothing store and I immediately spied the most wondrous coat that I had ever seen in my life.

This coat was pale peach-colored iridescent leather. The style was a fingertip length artist smock, with a Peter Pan collar and huge patch pockets. This marvel, lined with bright red and white striped silk, looked like Doris Day could have worn it in one of those Rock Hudson comedies. It was simply amazing and as an added bonus, it not only felt like glove-leather, it fit me as if it had been tailor made. My two male companions proceeded to make fun of me for even thinking of such a garment (this was in the days of Rocky Horror at the Granada when black first started becoming the new black) and with great reluctance (on my part, at least) we exited the shop empty handed.

I phoned the shop as soon as I returned home, not twenty minutes later, to tell them to hold this prize for me. Alas, the proprietor informed me that as soon as we had left the store, an older couple from out of town had come in and bought MY COAT for their granddaughter. Oh! The agony!

Two tough lessons learned in an otherwise successful lifetime of thrift shopping. You can always rethrift an unwanted item, but far better to regret a purchase than regret losing the find of a lifetime. Buy now or forever hold your purse.

My Friend Hazel

Hazel Pontius Collmer was the first “elder” in my life, other than my grandparents. I encountered her in the late 1970’s, when she was making the best of her twilight years at Beechwood Retirement Home, having out-lived two husbands. The driver who ran errands for the residents used to bring her paintings in for framing when I worked at a nearby frame shop. She included detailed notes on the type of framing she desired and we all adored her dreamy little watercolors.

One evening I had gone over to Beechwood to see my paternal grandmother, who lived in the wing with the dementia patients. Grandma was a lovable little dear but she really did not remember who I was and this made for unsettling and abbreviated visits, motivated more, I must admit, from familial obligation than anything else. I remembered that Mrs. Collmer lived there as well so one evening I decided to try and find her.

Thankfully this was in the days before all of the “privacy concerns” so I asked for and received her location. I knocked on her door and introduced myself as her framer. She chuckled and responded that she had always assumed her framer was a man but she looked me up and down and must have decided I was OK because she invited me into her small apartment. She was watching MacNeil/Lehrer (quite a refreshing change from the game shows blaring away in the rest of the building) and she shushed me until the segment she had been viewing was finished. It was a story about the first woman to be appointed the head of an Ivy League university.

Mrs. Collmer shut off the television, turned to me and asked, “Now, what would you have worn for an interview like that? How would you have done your hair?” She thought that the woman had not looked businesslike enough for such a distinguished position. Mrs. Collmer always dressed impeccably: she had a wardrobe of beautiful dresses, matching shoes and handbags, her hair was always perfectly coiffed; she always seemed to look like she was heading out the door to attend a concert at the philharmonic or perhaps conduct a board meeting.

By the time I met her, she was ninety-something and I was thirty-something and we soon became fast friends. I would go visit my grandmother for five or ten minutes and then spend several hours with this delightful woman who soon insisted that I call her Hazel. She had moved into the retirement community after the death of Mr. Collmer, her second husband who had been her first love. This was the best story!

When she was in high school she was friends with and eventually the beloved of Mr. Collmer, who was a year ahead of her. He went away to college after he graduated, and they corresponded regularly. He told her stories of his new roommate, a Mr. Pontius, and he told Hazel, “I am bringing him home with me for Thanksgiving, he is a grand fellow - you will just love him!”

Of course, much to Mr. Collmer’s dismay, Hazel did indeed fall in love with Mr. Pontius (and he fell in love with her). They were married for over fifty years until his passing, whereupon Hazel serendipitously reconnected with Mr. Collmer whose wife of many years had also passed on. So the childhood sweethearts were reunited (in their seventies) and married for over a decade.

Hazel’s room was decorated with the best pieces from her art collection and her favorite furnishings. When she had moved into Beechwood in her eighties she knew she needed something other than her musical pastimes to keep her occupied, so she took some watercolor classes from James Kuo at Rosary Hill. Dr. Kuo was delighted with her bright spirit. A medical condition caused her hands to be quite shaky so he convinced her to paint clouds and skies and seascapes and foliage - not try to aim for straight lines - go with the flow, as it were. Soon I had framed so many of her paintings that I convinced her to have a one-woman show at the Rosa Coplon Home that lent its wall space to local artists for month-long shows.

Hazel Pontius Collmer and me.

 The residents and staff at Rosa Coplon could hardly believe that this artist was older than most of their residents! Hazel displayed her works there three years in a row and sold quite a number of pieces each time (I bought quite a few myself). At the last show she made a personal appearance at the opening, gave a brief talk, and ended up by demonstrating her daily exercise routine. My dad was holding a microphone for her and he really had to scramble to keep up with her contortions.  Someone asked her how it felt to be so old. Hazel replied, “I will let you know when I feel old.”

Hazel had been born in 1888; she was one of the first generation of women to pursue education beyond high school. Mr. Pontius worked in the upper echelons of management in the YMCA and they traveled all over the world on for both business and pleasure. She played the violin and sang in choral groups. She was straight-backed and tall (she had much better posture than I did!), and she strode through her kingdom with a slender silver-headed cane (which I now have in my possession). Every night before she went to bed she walked down every hallway of her entire building complex and checked to make sure all of the exterior doors were locked and secure.

I remember she told me she was always so excited each time a new resident moved in to Beechwood. She lived with the everlasting hope that someday she would find a kindred spirit - someone who could discuss great books and music and world affairs, and someone who could hear well enough to carry on the conversation. Someone to talk to, a friend her age, a peer – that is what she sought and I do not think she ever found such a person. That may be why she and I became so close – she was desperate! She did give me the perceptive advice not to marry my second husband (which I of course ignored) and today when I look at a plastic grocery bag or a plastic container of any kind, I think of her comment almost thirty years ago that someday such items would be abandoned as being wasteful of the planet’s resources.

In 1985 she fell, broke her hip and her daughter hastily arranged transportation to Buffalo so she could make preparations to move her mother back with her to North Carolina to be close to the rest of her family. Humor usually pops up in the darkest of circumstances and I remember laughing that even though Hazel was suffering from the sudden alteration to her circumstances in addition to the discomfort from her shattered hip, she still managed to be fashion-conscious enough to chide her 75-year-old daughter for carrying a purse that did not match her shoes. Her daughter responded, “I am sorry, Mother, but I was in a hurry to get here to be with you!”

After she moved out of Beechwood, I saw her one last time. I drove down to Asheville with all of her possessions shoehorned into my rusty old van. Although I had a delightful stay with her daughter in an enchanting old farmstead in the middle of a wild and beautiful woodland, visiting my dear Hazel in the inhospitable hospital setting was just not the same as our vibrant get-togethers from days gone by; she was suddenly small, powerless and forlorn - such a pale imitation of her former effervescent self. It was a heartrending visit.

Hazel passed away in 1986 at the age of 98.

 Seascape, Hazel Pontius Collmer